A Burning Arrow
by BlutheShinyMew
Summary: A story of a boy and his growlithe as they travel through life, teenage years, and war.


PROLOUGE

I ran through the forest—fast. I wiped tears from my face as I ran; if any fell on growlithe, it would surely hurt him. I mean after all, they're wet, right? I could see the little brick villa I called home within a few yards, but it felt like miles. I had already been running for the past hour or so, trying to not only get away from the trashy poachers that hurt the poor young growlithe and his litter, but so that I could get home to have my mom dress his wounds. I pounded through the doors, my lungs feeling like sand bags, and my mouth feeling like the Sahara Desert. "Mom! Mom" I called as I searched frantically through the house in hopes of finding her ironing my father's suit, or making a snack. But, she was nowhere to be found.

I knew exactly what had to happen. I laid the growlithe, who was quite large compared to his siblings, on a absorbant cloth. Then, I dashed to my parent's bedroom scrabling to grab the medical supplies I needed. It was times like this when I was thankful that my parents were both doctors. I could hear the growlithe whining downstairs as he suffered from the arrow in his side. "Don't worry! I will be down soon!" I called, purely hoping in the small chance that the poor Pokémon dying on my kitchen counter would understand what I said. I felt like I was using extreme speed as I flew down the stairs and began work on the poor thing.

First, I removed the fur surrounding the wound, then, I started to remove the end of the arrow. It was the hardest thing I had ever done. Never did I think little, fourteen year old I would be preforming emergency surgery on anything. After the arrow head finally came out, I snatched up the package of gauze I brought down and gave the growlithe what looked like an expertly aimed string shot. Continuing to help the Pokémon, I ran sacked our kitchen until I had a decent amount of sitrus and oran berries to use as a temporary, less effective, potion.

A few hours later, my mother and father finally got home from work. The look on their faces when the saw I holding a little orange surrounded by bloody gauze was priceless. Still, I think they weren't as shocked as I was. "D—Damien Charles Renhose!" my mom belched as she dashed over to me and scooped up growlithe. "W-what happened here?!" She said as she gazed around at the destroyed kitchen and living room. After dad and I had finally calmed her down, I began to tell her what had happened that summer day. "You see, I was in the woods, and there were poachers—"I began. "POACHERS?!" She screamed. "Yes, mom. Poachers. Anyways... they attacked this poor guy's litter. There were crossbows and guns, so, they were probably hunting for their pelts." I explained, stroking growlithe's fur.

It took about a half an hour more of explaining what had happened, a quarter hour discussing what my punishment would be for entering the woods without an adult, and another five minutes of awkward silence before I decided to ask the question my parents probably knew was coming. "So, uh, can we keep him?" I looked around, trying to solve what their expressions were. "Your mother and I will talk about it, Dame." My father said. "But, you know how we don't really think being a trainer is something you would enjoy." He continued. I sprang out of my seat, trying to contain myself, "Mom, dad, I would never want to be a trainer! We all know that. All I'm asking for is a chance to raise this growlithe." My parents looked at each other as they always did, communicating through some kind of secret language. My mother sighed, "Fine, you can keep the growlithe. But, understand, it's yours. You care for it. If it causes trouble, he can go back to the woods where he came from." I gazed out towards the area that surrounded my home. The spring trees just beginning to blossom, the flowers erupting out of the ground, the occasional movement in along the forest floor as a ratatta dashes towards it's burrows, or a bellossom aiding the plants development. "Well, Damien, are you going to name him?" My dad asked. "Oh, yeah!" I exclaimed, scouting the room around me for inspiration. My eyes fixed on the brownish red broken arrow laying on the kitchen table. "Arrow." I decided. "Arrow?" My parents questioned. "Yeah, I found grabbed him after he was shot with an arrow, so why not name him Arrow?" I reasoned. "Arrow will be perfect." I stared down at Arrow sleeping in my lap. "And we're going to have a great life together—I know it!" So that's where Arrow and I's story begins. A socially rejected ten year old, and an orphan, somewhat chubby growlithe. It sounds boring now, but just wait. Once you know where and how I'm writing this, you'll be amazed, trust me.


End file.
